


my lungs, they burn for air

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drowning, Gen, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22428223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “I’ve heard the stories, of course,” he declares, while keeping an easy pace at Geralt’s side. "They call it plenty of things — the nokk, the nix, the nik-nak — okay, maybe not that last one, but you get the point. Beautiful women who live in lakes and streams, and pop out naked to lure unwary travelers to a brutal demise!” He claps his hands together, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Ooh, my friend, is was one I can’t miss!”In retrospect, Jaskier really could have afforded to stay behind on this little adventure.--------------In which Jaskier drowns, and Geralt proves adept at an unconventional form of CPR.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 215





	my lungs, they burn for air

Jaskier tends to avoid large bodies of water if he can help it. Nothing against them, really — only he’s heard one too many stories from Geralt’s reluctant lips, of Aeschnas and Brukolaks and Drowners, pulling oblivious travels down into the deep. It would be enough to turn anyone off a nice afternoon swim, really. For _life_ — if you’re lucky enough to get away from the water’s edge breathing. As someone who quite enjoys living, and has little desire to meet an unromantic end in some boggy mire, smothered by mud, Jaskier’s learned to keep his distance whenever he finds himself passing by a lake or river. Though he always gives Geralt’s monsters a wide berth, the water beasts get the widest berth at all.   


Whatever lurks beneath the deep, it’s not his business. Jaskier’s got no desire to bother them — so, by the gods, they shouldn’t want to bother _him_.

Of course, the gods always have a nasty sense of humor.

[[MORE]]

“I’ve heard the stories, of course,” he declares, while keeping an easy pace at Geralt’s side. Before most kills, Geralt is usually quieter than the grave, focused on going over what he knows and forming a plan on how to kill it. Jaskier’s not the ‘thinking ahead’ sort, really. He’s also really good at filling silences before they can become uncomfortable. Really, if Geralt didn’t have him around, he might forget what words sound like entirely. “They call it plenty of things — the nokk, the nix, the nik-nak — okay, maybe not that last one, but you get the point. Beautiful women who live in lakes and streams, and pop out naked to lure unwary travelers to a brutal demise!” He claps his hands together, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Ooh, my friend, is was one I can’t miss!”

“There’s still time,” Geralt replies, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder. “Start running back to the inn. Maybe you can make it by nightfall.”

“Very funny.” If Geralt meant it, he’d do more than tell Jaskier to go home. He wouldn’t have let him come in the first place. They’ve been there before, and Jaskier’s learned to understand when a monster’s simply too dangerous, and when Geralt’s just indifferent to company.

All he warns before setting out on this job, Jaskier trailing at his heels, was, “don’t make friends.”

“Oh, no no.” Jaskier throws back his head and chuckled, keeping quick pace on foot with Roach’s trotting. “I appreciate the female body in all shapes and sizes, but a tail is a bit much, even for me. All parts where they belong, if you please.”

To Geralt’s credit, he doesn’t buy that for a second. “Tell that to the Dullahan you bedded last month.”

Jaskier gasps. “That woman —-“ he sputters for a moment, scrambling for some way to salvage his pride, but comes up blank. “Was possessed of great personal charm! It was all going great until her head fell off, I’ll have you know.”

“And you started screaming.”

“Reasonable.”

“And I burst in to find you naked, in bed, holding a woman’s head in your hands.”

“Hardly the _worst_ thing you’ve accidentally seen, let’s be honest.”

“And that,” says Geralt, picking up the pace on Roach, “is exactly why you should have stayed home.”

Winding up jogging half the way to the nokk’s lake has Jaskier out of breath and aching, though not at all deterred. By the time Geralt settles down to make cake for the night, they can hear the trickle of the stream not far off in the distance. If Jaskier’s puny little human ears can make it out, Geralt’s Witcher senses must be on high alert. Any move the Nokk makes, they’ll know. Why, this job should be wrapped up before dinner time!

“Is it…” he ventures tentatively, after watching Geralt sit and stare, stone-still, into the distance for a solid five minutes, “awake?”

“No.” Geralt finally sighs, kicking a bit of dirt into the makeshift fire pit Jaskier has been creating. “And it won’t wake up unless it sees a reason to. No flame tonight.”

“Thank god it’s summer,” Jaskier mutters, filling his hard work back up again. “Don’t exactly fancy freezing to death because you —“

“Shit.”

He doesn’t even pause. “Don’t really need to know that, Geralt, but thank you for the wonderful input —“

“No. Shit.” Geralt catches his attention by rattling something metal. When Jaskier looks up, he finds the other man holding his water canteen aloft, upside down and empty. “Out.”

Jaskier’s mind flashes back to his own canteen, tied to his waist… but he’d been operating under the assumption that Geralt had plenty of water, see, and it was a very long walk. He’s got a few mouthfuls left, maybe.

They blink at each other, silently debating what to do for a long moment. Well, Geralt’s debating what to do. To Jaskier, they’ve got exactly one option, and it seems obvious.

“Well,” he declares, planting both hands on his hips, “seems like we have to go make friends.”

At once, that peculiar look comes over Geralt’s face, the one that acknowledges he and Jaskier aren’t the same species anymore, but questions whether they ever started out that way to begin with. “No,” he declares at once, settling down on the nearest log. The poor thing grunts under his weight. Jaskier’s frown deepens. “We’ll have to do without.”

Snorting, Jaskier tosses his head in the direction of the running water. “Excuse me, were we _not_ just walking for half the day? I had a chance to replenish myself with ale at the last inn, but you didn’t even get to do that. We both need water, Geralt. It’s _really_ not a topic for debate.”

Geralt’s eyes narrow into slits. A lesser man might be intimidated into shrinking into a cowardly turtle shell, but Jaskier’s seen him do the exact same thing with flies bothering them on their way. At this point, Geralt could start doing vaguely-threatening tricks with a very big knife and Jaskier wouldn’t be phased.

At any rate, though, Geralt shows no signs of giving in. His glare doesn’t falter… and after a moment, Jaskier decides it isn’t worth it to press. He sighs, slumping down on the adjacent log, and tugs the water satchel from his waist. Leaning over, he holds it out to Geralt; when the Witcher blinks at him, he gives it a tempting shake. Finally, Geralt gives in.

“There.” Jaskier feels much more reassured, seeing the last of their water slip down Geralt’s throat. After all, it wouldn’t do for the experienced monster hunter to collapse in the middle of a job. Jaskier could hold his own against a monster as far as running went, and could probably scream it’s ears off, but any actual fighting would see him monster mash rather quickly.

Which is why it’s probably a bad idea to sneak off with their canteens the very first moment Geralt is distracted. But, well, Jaskier’s never been known for his instincts of self-preservation.

They need water, is the thing, and as far as Jaskier can see it they’ve got two options: try to pilfer some out from under the nokk’s nose, or lure it out with a nice juicy human, let Geralt kill it, then help themselves to however much water they feel inclined to. Either way. Everyone wins.

The stream is deceptively peaceful, almost eerie in the bright moonlight. Water glimmers wherever it ripples over stones and gullies along the ground; it isn’t very wide, enough for Jaskier to conceivably cross in a running leap, but he can’t gouge deepness from here. It could be up to his thighs or well over his head; there woodland streams are deceptive, and he’s accidentally blundered into both.

Most importantly, it’s quiet. _Very_ quiet.

Exhaling softly in the midnight air, Jaskier creeps to the water’s edge. The only sound is that of running water, from the falls somewhere in the distance. The only crunch of leaves come from beneath his own feet. When he leans over, gazing into the clear waters, the only blurry silhouette is his own. Hastily, Jaskier uncaps his canteen, and bends to begin filling it with water. It flows without hesitation, filling in a matter of moments; the water is a bit too cool against his bare skin, biting like a predator wherever it touches, but he braces himself and ignores it. By the time he fumbles the cap back onto his canteen, his hands are shaking. As though he’s just stuck his hands in snow, his fingers ache, chilled to the bone. When he huffs out a breath, it’s visible in front of him.

But wasn’t it just… summer?

Jaskier looks up, and his heart freezes, too.

The woman makes no obvious effort to be beautiful. One glance at her, and it’s clear she doesn’t need to try. She moves with a natural grace, inimitable to anyone who doesn’t possess it naturally; dark hair flows down her shoulders and back like a waterfall, clinging to bare skin until it reaches her hips. Bare, there’s the thing — she is utterly bare. Jaskier’s blinded by her breasts first, a perfect pair; in the glow of moonlight, they’re practically translucent. Then his gaze ventures down, along the hourglass slenderness of her waist, to — to — oh, _by the gods._ He’s always tried to live a good life, and this sight alone is his reward. This is the sort of body ballads were invented for.

“Please,” he heard himself say, though he’s certainly not conscious of it. “I didn’t mean to intrude… forgive me.”

Her head bows, and he is forgiven. Whatever chill jaskier may have been feeling seconds ago is thoroughly forgotten. What was it Geralt said back at the camp? _Make friends?_ Surely this is just what he meant… oh, and if there’s ever been a soul he’s _more intereste_ d in befriending…

“I’ve had so many dreams like this,” he hears himself say, transfixed by her hand as it extends out to him. “Usually they end… _marvelously,_ on a great dramatic crescendo… then sometimes they end with my friend leaping out of the water with a sword to ruin the party, but I try to forget those. More… _nightmares_ , really…”

Geralt. Where is Geralt? Won’t be be worried? Jaskier had something to do here, he’s sure… but the canteens have fallen from his hands and gone forgotten in an instant. With a dull ripple of realization, it dawns on him that he can no longer feel the shore under his feet. There’s water lapping round his calves; he takes a step closer, and it reaches his thighs. Something about this isn’t right, but he can’t put his finger on it… not when the lady in front of him is still reaching out, consuming all his thoughts. _But Geralt…_ halfheartedly, Jaskier tries to break away, the thought of his friend left alone at the campsite troubling him. It’s like pulling his thoughts from molasses. He hesitates, starts to churn, feels a shiver penetrate the blanket of warmth suddenly surrounding him… then the lady’s arms are on his shoulders, and he can’t feel anything at all.

Her eyes are pitch black, pupilless, leaking something dark down her face like tears. She flutters lush lashes at him, and a smile spreads across Jaskier’s face, goofy and unmoored. What was he doing? Can’t remember, not important. This… this is a poem in itself, a living sonnet, and he has fallen headlong into it. Whatever he’s done to earn this… oh, her hands are there, and her lips are there, and he can’t think of anything more, nothing else…

_Come with me,_ he hears her say.

Jaskier is already dissolving in her arms. If he wanted to, he couldn’t refuse.

And gods help him, he _doesn’t_.

Her lips find his; they are cold as ice. His eyes can suddenly no longer stay open. The water closes over his head, and he knows nothing at all.

———————————————————————————————-

It’s Geralt’s fault, really, for looking away.

But ultimately there’s no sense blaming himself for the idiot bard doing what he does best; trouble is drawn to Jaskier like a magnet, and whether he’s warned once or one hundred times, he’ll find it. As soon as Geralt realized the conspicuous absence of irritating voice at his side, he took off through the woods, tracking Jaskier’s scent… but ultimately, he couldn’t make it in time.

If he owes Jaskier anything tonight, it’s making his job a little easier. They found the Nokk.

Specifically: the Nokk found _Jaskier._

He reaches the water’s edge just as Jaskier’s lips are captures by the monster’s determined own. Restraining a shout requires every ounce of self-control in his body — if the Nokk has a chance to get away, she’ll vanish into the depths of the water, taking Jaskier down with her. As it is, Geralt only has the chance to register a handful of things: the way Jaskier goes limp in the Nokk’s grip, it’s monstrous clawed hands scraping possessively along his shoulders, and the blue tinge to Jaskier’s skin a second before the water closes over his head.

Geralt doesn’t think. He leaps.

The Nokk doesn’t see him coming, so she doesn’t have a chance to react. She springs out of the water, mouth opening in a feral shriek. It’s fangs are needle-sharp, black and dripping. Geralt brings the silver blade down towards its head, but the Nokk is too quick. She twists in the water, lashing out. What were slender legs a moment ago has transformed into a tail, sleek and powerful, that almost succeeds in taking Geralt’s legs out from under him.

He stumbles back instead, and rips a much larger blade from its sheathe against his chest. This one, he doesn’t give the monster a chance to register. He swings, catching it in the chest; the Nokk wails. Caught off guard, she’s easy to attack, again and again. The more swings catch her, the more fight goes out of her, and the more her visage melts away. By the time Geralt’s blue comes down for the last time, it is in a shriveled, serpentine creature, scales covering the entirety of its withered body.

The Nokk’s head comes off, and it quickly cast to the shore. Geralt’s eyes take in the edge of the water; his pulse quickens. There’s nothing there. There’s no one.

He wheels back to the stream, where a cloud of black blood is quickly spanning out to tinge the water black and depthless. It’s deeper than it looks, but not so deep. Jaskier’s somewhere, somewhere below the surface, and if he hasn’t emerged —

Geralt plunges forward, scrambling in the anger for anything to grasp onto. His hand closes around something solid, but it’s a roof that refuses to leave the ground. Somehow, he gets his arms around a piece of driftwood; this is hurled aside with a grunt of frustration. “Jaskier!” he hollers, though far past the point of expecting an answer. “Jaskier!”

There’s nothing there, until there is. In the depths of the frigid water, Geralt closes around something solid — and finally, finally, Geralt can breathe.

Which is considerably more than Jaskier is doing. As the limp body is hauled out of the water, Jaskier is completely motionless. He doesn’t struggle, even as Geralt hauls him over his shoulder and trudges towards shore. Already, a hand is rubbing along Jaskier’s back instinctively, trying to coax any water he’s swallowed up. Even when Geralt drops him down to solid ground, however, Jaskier doesn’t so much as cough.

His chest is still. His dark hair looks black, papered to his dripping face. His lips, his cheeks, his everything, have a blue tongue which sets Geralt’s sluggish pulse alight.

“Jaskier,” he hisses, pushing once, then twice, on his chest. Nothing. _“Jaskier,_ wake up!”

This isn’t something he’s ever had to deal with before. Most victims of water monsters are far beyond the point of saving; Geralt’s tried once or twice, but has never been able to manage. He’s carried those bodies back to town along with the monster’s head. The very thought of doing that with Jaskier sends his pulse into a frenzy, bike racing up his throat. Now, he moves on instinct alone. Jaskier’s head is tilted back, mouth open. Geralt pushes down on his chest twice more, then leans down to breathe air against his mouth. Jaskier’s lips feel like ice beneath his own.

“Breathe, damn it!” Out of sheer frustration, he gives Jaskier a desperate shake. 

“Come on —“ Another compression. Another breath. Jaskier doesn’t react. _“Come on —“_

He will not be able to stand it if he has to cradle Jaskier’s corpse against his chest the entire way back to town. This isn’t Jaskier’s home; these are not his people. Geralt doesn’t even know where his home is, where his body belongs once his spirit has flown. If Jaskier’s never even mentioned that, then how is he possibly supposed to put him to rest? And the idiot bard was getting water, of all things — not for himself, because he’s not that stupid, but for Geralt — 

It’s his fault. It’s all Geralt’s bloody fault.

“You’re not allowed to do this!” he snarls, slamming down on Jaskier’s chest once more. “Not like this! _Wake up,_ Jaskier!”

Up to that point, Geralt never believed it was possible to yell someone back to life. As usual, Jaskier is eager to prove him wrong.

He sputters, once. It’s sudden, convulsive, and so quick Geralt feels certain he imagined it — but suddenly black water is bubbling up Jaskier’s throat, he’s gurgling on it, and it’s all Geralt can do to flip him on his side. Immediately, a torrent of water bursts past Jaskier’s lips. He heaves, trembling, and braces himself upright on weakened elbows. As soon as the water has left him, the coughing starts. He sputters as if he’s going to die.

Geralt waits, a hand massaging firmly between Jaskier’s heaving shoulder blades. Whether this helps or not is anyone’s guess. Jaskier gags again, eyes fluttering. Almost like a muscle spasm, one arm soars up to grip Geralt’s arm, desperate. Taking the hint, Geralt wraps both arms around his shoulders, heaving him into an upright position. Free of having to support himself, tremors begin to wrack Jaskier’s entire body, like a leaf in a storm.

“Oh—“ he hiccups, rubbing a hand over his mouth. His entire face scrunches up like he’s in pain. “ _Ohhh…_ that was… not at all what I was hoping for…”

“You idiot,” is all Geralt says. With the bard braces heavily against his chest, he finds himself unconsciously rocking him; if Jaskier notices, he doesn’t say anything, and though Geralt is startled at himself, stopping now would be even more conspicuous. 

Jaskier’s chest heaves again. He tries to catch the gag in his throat, but can’t manage; a hand flies up to his mouth. Geralt has just enough time to flip him before he’s vomiting again, a torrent of more water, plus the meagre breakfast they managed that day. His chest convulses violently. If Geralt wasn’t holding him, he surely wouldn’t be able to hold himself up.

When he finally cuts off, he slumps back heavily against Geralt’s chest. For the moment, all self-respect is abandoned. All he can do is breathe heavily, head lolling back against Geralt’s shoulder.

“I’m really sorry about this,” he manages after a moment. A hand comes up to his chest, and he grimaced visibly; Geralt has the decency to feel guilty about that.

“Don’t,” is all he says, brushing some remnants of water from the corner of Jaskier’s mouth with his own sleeve. The other man is still soaking wet, trembling, and it’s urgent they get him back to camp as soon as possible. Now that there’s no monster to alert, they’re clearly going to need a fire. “Can you walk?”

“Gimme a minute,” Jaskier manages. He takes more than one to gather his strength, slowly testing his weight when it isn’t braced against Geralt. After a moment — with a bit of support — he finds his feet again. Jaskier looks practically sturdy.

“Yeah,” he huffs out hoarsely. “I think… I’m alright.”

“Let’s get you back to camp before you freeze to death,” Geralt grunts.

He starts to take a step forward, but Jaskier doesn’t move. Jolting, Geralt rounds back on his companion in annoyance, but Jaskier is looking over his shoulder.

“The water, Geralt,” is all he says. “Get the water.”

It takes Geralt a moment to understand; then he sees the two canteens, abandoned at the stream’s edge, and gets it. With a heavy sigh, he leaves Jaskier by the water’s edge and scoops up both canteens; when he turns back, Jaskier is miraculously still standing.

“Next time,” he mutters, slinging an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders once more, “tell me before tracking down a water monster by yourself.”

Jaskier laughs hoarsely, his entire body convulsing with it. “Oh-ho, my friend,” he mutters, “next time, save yourself the trouble of inviting me.”

“When did I invite you?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier’s elbow digs lightly into his side.

They are quiet the rest of the way back.


End file.
